Broken
by Otakuisanothernameforawesome
Summary: Russia is alone, broken. (TRIGGER WARNING: THOUGHTS OF CUTTING AND SUICIDE) One-shot


**TRIGGER WARNING, GUYS! Thoughts of cutting (if you can call it that) and thoughts of suicide. Please, if this may cause you to hurt yourself, CLICK OUT OF THIS NOW.**

**I don't own Hetalia.**

Empty.

Cracked.

Broken.

His eyes wandered aimlessly around the room, taking in the smallest details of the walls he'd scanned so many times before. There wasn't an area where the wallpaper didn't droop or the paint beneath it flake off, a corner without cracks. A pipe ran across the top of the wall, age-old tape holding the run-dry metal together. Inhaling deeply, the stench of mildew filled the air.

A chuckle escaped the silver-haired man's throat. "It seems so nice, today," He jeered, smile lacking. Today was like any other day. The sun was up, the snow was cold, the room was empty. Everything was just how it was supposed to be.

His dull, lavender eyes stung as he felt the tears building, his chest aching with the familiar pang of nothingness. Blinking away the tears, he wrapped his scarf tighter around his face, tighter around his neck. Maybe he could…

No.

"I'm a country," he mumbled, his shaking hands returning to his lap. "If I die, they die." He repeated the phrases, it becoming a mantra of sorts. His voice quivered, eyes stinging once more. He stopped his chanting short, instead deciding to walk around a bit, the tears forgotten, even as they flowed down his cheeks. Removing a glove, the white-haired man ran his fingers along the cracked walls, chipped paint and powder remaining on his fingers. His boots gently swished against the floor, traction and thickness worn by these days of walking aimlessly, without a purpose. He had a purpose, this he knew, but...

A chill swept over him as he neared the broken window, faint streams of light settling in from outside. Wrapping his arms around himself, he sauntered over to the broken glass sheet.

"Such a raggedy break," escaped his lips. He ran a finger along a smoother edge, almost wanting the blood to come. "But you do have your smooth edges, da?" As expected, the glass did not reply. He had become used to the silence. There seemed to be no one but him around lately. Retracting his hand and replacing his glove, the Russian inspected the window. He'd thought about leaving many a time, but had ended up at the conclusion that he simply did not want to. He felt like everything in this place understood him. He knew he was broken, and he knew they were broken, too.

"All their smiling faces," he spoke, "how are they so happy all the time?" The memories flashed in his mind. All those other countries, always bickering and being so loud, but a smile continuously upon their lips when they'd calmed down. "Is that what it's like? To be not alone?" His scarf flapped in the freezing air. "I would like that, very much, I think."

He plopped down, feeling small snowflakes carried in from behind land upon his red ears. The Russian stared at his gloved hands, watching as they moved almost by themselves towards his chest. The place that held his heart.

"Maybe…if this were warmer," he rubbed his hands together, placing them—once friction-heated—against the left side of his chest. "It's not working," his words came out in mumbles again. His hands moved up to his face, a hand at each side of his mouth.

"Maybe if I do this…" he pondered aloud, pulling the tips of his mouth into a smile. He held his muscles that way, frown returning as soon as it wasn't working. A sigh escaped his blue lips, a cloud of warm air appearing before him. His mind wandered once again.

Eventually, his thoughts came to a close, and his eyes wandered back to the red clay flower pot sitting atop an unsteady and nearly fallen-in table. The pot contained a shriveled-up excuse for a plant, cold, permafrosted soil sat around the eternally drooping stem. It had been dead for a while now, Ivan realized. He, for a moment, questioned just how long he'd been here for his lovely flower to die.

"Even you have become broken, Mr. Sunflower," he half-chuckled out. The memories of the once bright and beautiful plant flooded his mind, for they're really the only memories he had of this place changing.

He felt it. He felt it the moment those bright, yellow petals entered his mind, the black center and green leaves…the corners of his mouth tugged up. Not many memories existed of it, no, but…it brought a little sunshine into his life.

"Maybe I just need something that makes me feel not so alone," he pondered aloud again. Yes, that was it. His eyes stayed on the withered sunflower, the petals nothing more than decomposing crumbs surrounding the pot. He felt the ache again, this time more present, hungrier, more like a knife ripping at his heart. The realization of his one companion's death…the realization that it was gone now… it wasn't as bad as he thought. 'It's broken,' he thought, smile spreading across his lips

'But I'm broken, too.'

**I hope you guys enjoyed that. Sorry about all the angst but..I guess that's why it's labeled angst. I hope this makes more sense to you as you read it than it did to me as I wrote it. Yeah. Reviews?**


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